


words left unspoken

by Sonny



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Comment Fic, Drama, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-09
Updated: 2011-04-09
Packaged: 2017-10-17 22:15:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/181797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sonny/pseuds/Sonny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the first time sam tells dean he wishes he hadn't gone to Stanford – from lady_eilthana on LJ</p>
            </blockquote>





	words left unspoken

**Author's Note:**

> For the Like a Virgin : Feels like the first time... a sam/dean_otp comment fic and art meme...

**words left unspoken**

  
He can't sleep. He's tried shutting his eyes every time but when he does he can only see one thing—Sammy being stabbed right in front of him, taking one last shuddering breath in his arms and then he's gone. Dean feels helpless all over again. It's not the bogeyman, things that go “bump” in the night, a restless spirit or gruesome killings that scare Dean Winchester when he dreams; he has a different take on nightmares and they generally involve him not being able to save his little brother.

Dean can die a million times, he doesn't care, but Sam always has to live. _Always_.

Dean realizes that Dad told him Sam had an “evil” in him that would win in the end—the demon-side causing Sam to succumb to its taunts, but the rules had changed. Dean was taking over the wheel and he was driving this bus for the rest of the journey.

Sam is a bit restless in sleep. Dean's not sure if it's residual effects from dying or being yanked back from death. Or if it's one of those random dreams that turn into nightmares. Either way, Dean can't sleep and he'll head on over to the table, take a chair and possibly do research on the laptop or peruse Dad's journal. Maybe he'll work on both to find them a new case to sink their teeth into.

Problem is the table is right next to Sam's bed. In slumber, if Dean had been asleep in his own bed, Sam's back would've faced him. Now he was forced to watch Sam's face; odd how peaceful the features look when not awake. He still looks enough like his younger self to stir Dean's heart.

Dean turns on the laptop and stops. He knows himself too well. He'll get online and his brain will turn to mush, and he'll forget why he was on there, and the only thing he will want to do is look up porn. So he closes the laptop and tugs over the bag Sam usually carries Dad's journal in. He pulls out the bound leather book and becomes a little stunned by the weight of the object—Dad's journal—the Winchester life—their legacy—their purpose for being... it carries the same kind of heavy burden on their shoulders.

He used to get a kick out of reading Dad's scribbles and boning up on what Big Baddies he'd come up against next. But the words have lost their sparkle. They don't jump off the page at him. There must be something profound in knowing when you'll die; it brings everything into focus and spotlights what's important.

Dean's eyes dart to Sam... and he stares intensely. God... he _loves_ that kid. He just took away a good fifty years (maybe) of his own life so Sam could live again. Sam's not supposed to die. _Fuck you, Dad!_ He opens the journal and begins flipping pages, not sure what he's intending to look for. A few crude drawings of creatures and symbols start to look familiar to Dean. He doesn't remember when the journal exchanged hands, when Dean began note-taking. His writing looks eerily similar to Dad's and he sees that what he sees isn't Dad's hunts, but his—alone—and then he and Sam's. Dean can spot Sam's writing instantly—it looks like it's from an educated person. But it's quite telling to notice he can't decipher if Dad wrote notes or he did.

Was Dean even his own person without knowing on purpose? He's not even certain _what_ he would've become had he not started hunting with Dad.

Dean attempts not to read but it disturbs him to no end that he's spent all his life being someone he's not supposed to be. Had Mom not died, had Dad not sought revenge... _what if_... what if Dean had done so well in school and gotten accepted to a college that actually prepared him for a career, for a “life”? Who would he be?

And who the hell would Sam have been? He's the only Winchester to be able to have a somewhat half-assed life. They even let him go to college and then... well, yeah... then he and Dad sucked Sam back in.

Dean glances over at Sam—sleeping, softly snoring—and he's assured of one thing... Sam is about the only bright spot in his wasted life. If there's a positive side to this chaotic fucked-up mess, it's being close to Sammy. Having a brother you'd die for and having that same brother be willing to die for you.

And Sam did—almost. They almost won—barely. That's the good thing about demons, deep down they're still bad. So even when they're in cahoots with other kin and work for Hell... odds are you can count on them looking out for Numero Uno. Someone wanted Dean's soul and if it meant keeping Sam Winchester alive to do it, all the better. Another demon could deal with Sam later.

Dean shoves Dad's journal away, slams it closed. It's a pitiful reminder to Dean that he never did anything profound to be remembered for. About the only one who will truly miss him when he's gone after this One Year Deal... is Sam. He pushes back the chair and moves to stand by the bed and looks down at his brother in deep slumber. He quietly sits on the mattress, his back on the second pillow and head leaning on the headboard. He realizes he's climbed on wearing his boots, so he stretches to take them off. He settles back down, but finds it more comfortable to be bit lower. He crosses his ankles, then threads fingers over is belly and attempts to relax. Maybe he'll find sleep by osmosis.

Sam is curled under thin linens. Dean lays atop the pile of sheets, yet he can still feel heat and it's coming off of Sam. Just to be sure, Dean touches Sam's cheek and brow with the back of his hand to check for fever. It's possible. Dean doesn't know the actual side effects to coming back from the dead. Sam's fine, he's just one big ole human heater, is all. Dean sits up to take off his long-sleeve, button-down plaid shirt. He throws it to the end of the bed, then lays back, finding he wants to lay only slightly higher than Sam—head on pillow, top of head bumps the headboard. He shuts his eyes and tries to calm down because his body's restless again. He wonders if maybe he should dress down to t-shirt and underwear, maybe being cold and exposed will make him need warmth and he'll crawl under.

Dean slides to the side of the mattress, stands and unbuttons his fly, lowering the denim to his knees. He sits down, takes off the jeans by the bottom leg hems. He folds the jeans leg-over-leg, then sets them on top of his discarded top shirt. He reaches for his back neck collar and tugs off the two shirts he wore for added warmth—typical Hanes t-shirt and a thermal undershirt. Dean peels off the undershirt from the t-shirt and puts the t-shirt back on—thermal shirt goes on top of the jeans—and now he resettles back down next to Sam. This time his head is only on the pillow and he's laying even with his brother. He realizes he may have shaken the bed, but as he glances over at Sam he's still buried, asleep in his own arm.

Dean lets out a laugh through his nostrils, then cracks the knuckles of each hand. Now he raises an arm to tuck the hand behind his head. He gives one yank to his underwear because there's tight cotton stuck between skin of inner thigh and his testicles—it pinched, now it doesn't. He lays quietly for a few minutes, staring at the ceiling and starts to feel a chill, so he sits up to remove the sheets under his body, crawling under. He lands on his back, rearranging the stuffing on the pillow to fit under his neck and he's not comfortable at all, so he rolls to his right, facing the wall. His right hand covers his face in misery, because he's never been this terrible at laying down in bed. Dean decides to try laying on his stomach, then setting his cheek on the pillowcase, but that proves even less relaxing because not only can he see Sam better... now he feels the radiating body heat more intensely. And he's pretty sure he's kicked Sam's huge feet once or twice.

Sam had, apparently, been using some kind of mind-altering chemical inside his brain to put himself in such a deep sleep; Dean's not sure a fog-horn would wake Sam up. He makes himself chuckle, rolling to his left side to face Sam. He keeps his left hand on his jaw, periodically scratching at his beard stubble and then touches some of the bruises on his face. Oh, yeah... he forgot about the ass kicking he got from Yellow Eyes. He closes his lids to control his anger and then sighs into his palm. Right after his sigh ends, Sam moves. Not a big action, but his arm drops and now it lays on the mattress; the hand is slightly curled, limply relaxed. Dean takes his own hand—the right—and slowly extends the arm to reach the exposed forearm on the white sheet. Dean's not frightened of touching Sam, he's just on alert since watching his brother die slowly in his arms. His one fear had come true and he wasn't able to stop it.

It's a bit surreal to have Sam here—not dead. Dean still hasn't let it settle in his brain, let it wrap around his heart. He still feels as stunned as he did when he saw Sam upright, looking at his reflection in the mirror—that furrowed brow curiously confused to how he could have healed from that wound on his back. And then the big dope had to hug Dean so hard, grateful _he_ was alive and not dead—oh, if Sammy only knew.

Dean stretches his fingers out to caress bare skin and he's eased by the warmth and the soft brown hairs coating the limb. He hasn't been this fascinated by Sam in years, where he needs to touch him to be reassured he's actually here, he's real and he's... _living_. His fingers curl around and run up the tendons and veins to the steady pulse just below the wrist. The tips trail up further to run over the callousness of the heel of the hand, then settle in the bed of softness to the palm. To Dean's amazement, fingers curl in kind about his own and trap them. It's either Sam's response to being caressed in sleep or Sam's just about to wake up.

It turns out to be the latter.

Dean wants to take his fingers back, but he doesn't want Sam to think he's flinching away from him.

Sam shuffles his head around on the pillow as he opens his eyes, staring across the way at Dean. “... hey...” His voice sounds deep and bedroom-y.

Dean swallows hard and keeps still. “Sorry. Did I wake you?”

“Nah...” Sam rolls a little to wrinkle his brow. “... wha' time's it?”

“9—at night.”

Sam flips back to bury his face in shame. “Jesus... I was out quick, wasn't I?”

“Pretty busy day. I'm not surprised.”

Sam turns his head a little—hazel eye and brown bangs exposed. “I'll say.” Now those drowsy eyes are filling with deep concern as they look over Dean. “You been able to sleep at all?”

“Eh...” Dean choses to lie. “... here and there.” He takes away his fingers slowly and catches Sam's eyes on his actions. “Again... sorry... old habit...”

“Holding my hand while I sleep...” Sam's not upset or ashamed by Dean's action. One side of his mouth is lifted in a smirk. “You chased away quite a few of the Big Baddies, back in the day.”

“Yeah...” It was goofy and kind of lame, the things Dean did to chase away childish fears.

“C'mere...” Sam gestures for Dean to come closer to him.

Dean's not sure what Sam's up to. “What?”

“Your eye... the cut we didn't think was anything...” Sam can't see in the dark, so he leans over to flip on a bedside lamp. He returns to bend forward toward Dean and he's inspecting the one wound they didn't tape shut. “Sit still. Don't move. It hasn't stopped seeping.” Then he's out of bed, over to their bags and he pulls out the Winchester's first aid kit, which looks an awful lot like a small version of an EMT duffel.

Dean's disquieted because... he's frustrated with himself for waking Sam and now Sam's tending to him like some field nurse in battle. It just proves to him, more and more, how Sam can't, and won't, succumb to evil. His goodness and gentleness is huge compared to the half of him that claims he's doomed to end the world.

Sam sits on the edge of the bed, drawing up a bent left leg and opens the kit to pull out the supplies he needs. “Come on.” He pats the center and some of where he'd been laying. “Get under the light. I want to clean this wound properly.”

Now Dean is feeling extremely guilty so he drapes himself like a martyr across the bed, diagonally, where his head lays on a part of Sam's pillow. He feels Sam's leftover warmth and the freshly-showered body odor with a splash of cologne. He shuts his eyes, staying on his left side as he extends his left arm to dangle off the mattress.

Sam pays the overplayed melodrama no mind as he places the kit on the floor and shuffles up to look at the wound closely in the light. There's a patch of gauze in his hand that he'll use to soak up blood as he pulls apart the edges of skin using his thumb. It's a strange looking cut because half of it already appears healed while one end drips dark red blood. As he keeps applying pressure to the wound, Sam notices that the cut moves with his nailbed when he squeezes down on one end and— _ah ha!_ He knows exactly what he's up against. He puts the gauze over the cut, picks up Dean's right hand and shows him what he needs for him to do. “Hold this for me. I'll be back.” Sam is jumping off the bed again, bare feet padding on carpet as he heads into the bathroom where his shaving kit is.

“Hey! Where are ya'—?” Dean's is still trying to wrap his head around Sam being alive, not dead. Everything his brother does at this point is like a freaking miracle.

Sam walks out after shutting the light. “Tweezers.” He works the little tool like a claw in mid-air, making quiet _clink-clink_ noises.

“Tweezers?!” Dean lifts both eyebrows in slight shock, then glances over Sam's long legs encased in soft cotton pajama bottoms as he bends to kneel on the carpet at bedside. “Oh, sorry... my girl at the salon plucks my eyebrows for me.”

“har-har...” Sam wants to laugh naturally, but right now he's simmering with concern for Dean. “... no, looks like a splinter. It's holding your cut together. There was a lot of shit flying around that old graveyard.” Jesus christ, there's so much more they need to talk about concerning their night: Dean's stupid deal to save his life, Dad's reappearance, not to mention Sam's resurrection. It's all a bit too much; Sam knows he's way too big to just wish he could crawl into his brother's arms and burrow until the craziness stops spinning about them, trying to rip them apart.

“You ain't lying.” Dean lowers his hand with the gauze, closing his eyes as Sam goes right for the splinter and tugs. “—ow!—ch!” It didn't hurt, just stung and made his eye water.

“Shit.” Sam doesn't tug further. “It's in there good.” He clears his throat, breathing through his nostrils. “Lemme try again.” When he attempts a second pull, this time Dean cringes and keeps his eyes shut. “I think I'm gonna have to, like... wiggle it out.” He's not sure he really wants to do that, even if the splinter is small.

“Excuse me?”

“Well, not, like... grab it by the tweezers and wiggle, because it's probably in the muscle. It's embedded in _something_.” Sam rests his elbows on the mattress, looming over Dean's face. “I can massage it with my thumbnail, because it seems to move when I apply pressure on _this_ end.” He demonstrates and causes Dean to mumble out an explicative. “—sorry...”

“... no—no... do _whatever_... just do it fast...” Dean feels woozy, if not a little dizzy. He doesn't think it's because of this tiny splinter's wound; he feels like he's under a meticulous microscope. Sam's concentration and diligence is unnerving this close-up.

“I'm gonna try something.” Sam gets off his knees by using the bed as leverage. “Don't move.” He holds out a hand with the palm facing out to tell Dean to remain calm and still. “I'll be right back.”

“Where the fuck am I gonna go, Sam?” Dean watches Sam move to the lower dresser and grab the empty ice bucket. Sam disappears into the bathroom again, this time running the water. Dean buries his head in shame in the bend of his left arm. Who knew this would lead to surgery. But it's Dean's fault—no, not the wound and not even waking Sam. He means he's at fault because he was the one who taught Sam how to tend to wounds. And because of who Sam is he probably read Gray's Anatomy from cover to cover and actually found good, interesting articles in the AMA Journals of Medicine. Sam wouldn't have stopped there; he would've read up on folk remedies and herbal replacements to chemical compound medicines. Jesus, Dean could only imagine how much useless information was retained in that brain—probably the same as him. Except Dean knew how to mend clothing, cook three meals a day, balance a daily budget on fifty bucks a week... all while knowing how to clean and oil a .45 revolver. Ah, to be a Winchester... what fun, and never a dull moment.

Sam returns with two washcloths, a bucket of steaming hot water and one of the hand towels. He sets the bucket on the floor, already soaking one washcloth. He puts the hand towel under Dean's head to prevent the bed from getting wet. The second washcloth was only to be used as a spare. It's become too quiet, and Sam is a little self-conscious that Dean can read his nervousness. “—'kay... I'm gonna use the hot water to soak the wound, soften the skin. I'm hoping the water, or the heat, will shake the splinter loose.”

While Sam wrings out the cloth, folding it into a perfect square, Dean shuffles about on the bed. “Sammy... i's not like I ain't never had worse.” He lowers his lids as the cloth comes near his face. “I wouldn't've minded you yanking it out with the tweezers.” Now he thinks he looked weak in front of his brother.

“No.” Sam utters the strong disagreement rater curtly.

“What?” Dean doesn't expect that much graveness and passion in Sam's tone.

“I'm not—” Sam purses his lips to quell his emotions. They feel off-kilter and lop-sided, more piercing than they've ever been before. “—'m not gonna make you suffer just to cause me less work.”

Dean knows what _this_ is right away. “Oh, jesus... not _this_ again...”

“Yes... _this_ again. It's all I'm gonna be thinking about. Hell, it's all I _can_ think about.”

“Then don't,” Dean mutters under breath as he tries to hide half his face in his left arm.

“A year? A whole fuckin' year?!” Sam pushes back from the bed to sit down on the floor—in the space between their two beds—and leans against the frame of the other. “To do— _what_? Roll over, play dead... right into their hands?” He bends both legs at the knee, then draws them to his body to rest his forearms on, dangling his hands down.

“ ** _I_** made the deal, **_I'll_** suffer the consequences.” Dean isn't able to look at Sam now, so he suffices with hearing his voice.

“You made the deal _for me_...” Sam's a bit perturbed by Dean's nonchalance, so he moves to lean on the same bed, left leg bent under him while the right leg is bent with foot planted on the carpet. He lifts his left arm to rest at an angle on the mattress. “... an' I'll suffer those same consequences—just not with you.” Sam wants to be able to see Dean's face.

Dean rolls slowly onto his back, hand to his temple to hold the cloth in place. He tries to fix the material over the wound so he doesn't have to keep it still. “I'll be in Hell... you'll be here— _alive—_ and working a case. I doubt that you'll suffer exactly the same.”

“Semantics?!” Dean's not making this easy for Sam, so he works himself off the floor and back onto the mattress so he can look down at Dean. Sam's left leg is still bent, draw up in front of him. “That's what this is? Just like with Dad and—” He shakes his head unable to finish the comment or wish to finish it. He secretly agreed with himself to stop fighting with Dean—both verbally and physically.

“And— _what_?” Dean arcs his right arm over his face, hoping he can hide for awhile under the limb, moving it all kinds of crazy angles so he doesn't have to look directly at Sam and Sam can't find out what emotions he's really feeling.

“I never wanted to be a hunter.” Sam mumbles out the one thing he's truly believed all his life.

Dean thinks it's unfair Sam gets to “own” that. It's not like anyone asked him either. “Well, neither did I.”

“Dean... don't say that.” Sam inches his hand over to lightly touch Dean's left biceps on the bed. “You were born for this supernatural stuff. I'm— _not_.”

Dean shifts the forearm to peek up at Sam, a frown wrinkling his brow. “How do you know?”

“Huh?” Shit... Sam swallows a lump in his throat. This sounds like it's working into being another verbal sparring.

“How do you know I was _always supposed to be_ a hunter?” Dean doesn't mean for his words to drip with such bitterness.

“Jeez, I don't know...” Sam is attempting not to let Dean's tone cause him to go off-kilter and act “bitchy”. “... because you took to the work better than I ever could.” It's half-praise, because it's the one thing Sam admires and respects Dean for, being able to take on Dad and his crusade of madness.

Suddenly, Dean feels a bit like he wants the insight, rather than struggle to be right. “So, you think I was destined for this... type of life?” He genuinely wants to know what Sam thinks, pick his brain since he doesn't have many other people to rely on or trust to be honest with him.

“I don't know.” Sam shrugs his shoulders, pounding the back of one hand into the palm of the other. “I tried to get out, to stay out... an' then you—” He's not blaming Dean for anything; Sam made the choices he did because he acted in the moment and not out of any guilt.

“—needed you to help me find Dad.” Dean mumbles out the words, the arm going back over his eyes, his fingers lay over his hair.

“And then _what?”_ Sam stares down at his hands, watching one hand's fingers play with the others as they trace and sculpt over the shapes. It's a nervous habit he has of avoiding eye contact. _“_ You were going to forget I'd been working on 4yrs of college toward a law degree and the off-chance I hated it—didn't enjoy it...” He snorts out a snicker, shaking his head. It all feels like ten years ago, not barely two. “— _what?_... you'd've made me a sweet offer I couldn't refuse?”

“You're here, aren't you?” Dean turns his face into the pillow; the arm is now completely obscuring his face. “You must've felt like you were missing _something_ college never gave you.” He is already aware of what—who—Sam might have missed.

Sam clears his throat, he unbends his leg to plant his feet on the ground. “Jess lost her life because of me.” He sits facing the motel room, arms sent backward to lean on his hands. “Now we know there's a purpose to these deaths of loved ones.” He's messing around with his feet, scraping bare heels on the carpet and alternating tapping one foot over the other as he crosses/uncrosses his ankles. “That things are conspiring behind our backs to put us on a fated path.” Sam takes a sidelong glance down at Dean, smiling to himself as he can barely see the face anymore—just an ear and some hair. “Did you plan to ask me to leave or were you acting on a whim?”

“I don't trust many people.” Dean lowers his arm, by way of his lower jaw, letting the limb curl around his neck as fingers grapple for his shoulder joint. “You were the only one I knew who could honestly work alongside me.” He sets his chin on the bend of his elbow, then darts his eyes at Sam.

Sam's back to looking at the room again, like he's talking to himself, working thoughts out of his mind so they don't cloud his judgment. “Had you stayed away... had you tried to find Dad on your own, do you think Jess still would've died?”

“... stop it.” Dean hates it when Sam takes on the weighted guilt of Jessica's passing. It's the same as with Dad, where there's no way to win or defeat the ghosts haunting their minds.

Sam leans back, this time he lands on a bent left elbow, stretching out his body. “I wanna know, Dean, because I think about it every day.” He starts to pick at the blankets he's laying on. “I put her life in jeopardy without realizing it. I naively thought I was safe, that I could actually have a pretty ordinary, boring life. But—”

“But— _what_?” Dean brings up his left hand to see if the cloth is still in its place—it is. “You had to go. You an' Dad would've killed each other.”

“mmm...” Sam's done with trying to hash-out and re-hash old memories about Dad. Tonight proved to him that wherever Dad was, he had moved on. “It was weird, but good... you know, to see him like that, despite the fact that he may have saved our asses, yet again, one last time.”

“Somehow I think that wasn't the real reason he showed. For our appeasement.” Dean was still getting over his own amazement at seeing Dad and watching him be able to vanquish the one who originally took Mom's life. He was happy and emotionally wrought for Dad. “A final confrontation with the man who took Mom? Dude... it's the whole reason Dad started hunting in the first place.”

Sam nods his head in complete agreement, unable to hide the bittersweet smile spreading over his face. “Seeing him reminded me of what I felt when he left us after the car accident.”

They don't use the word “dead” since finding out Dad traded a soul for a life—Dean's.

“What? What did you feel?” Dean realizes he really wants to know this answer, simply to see if it's the same thing he feels.

“I never should've left—at all. For college. I should've...” Sam pushes off his elbow to sit upright.

“... _jesus, Sammy_...” Dean mutters under breath as he rolls to his left side and sets his left arm down again on the mattress. He keeps checking on the cloth, even though Sam seems to be watching as well.

“Jess would be alive. I'd've stayed hunting all this time—I don't know, thinking back on it, even on our worst days... we still wanted Dad around. We—” This is where Sam gets stuck, unable to truly get a good read on his brother's feelings.

“What?”

“Well—you and I... that was 4 yrs we lost and we've barely had 2yrs together, not even 3...” Sam hopes his voices doesn't sound as whiny as it does in his head. It just isn't fair. He felt the same about Dad too, missing out on so much before he was taken from them. “You have a year left and I—I don't know... I want a time machine to take me back in time, choose wiser... stay, become a better hunter with you and Dad...”

“... whoa, whoa... no... stop.” Dean puts up his right hand, palm out, for Sam to shut up. “Who's to say that those years away were bad? They may have saved your ass. You would've learned your destiny sooner... found out about Yellow Eyes and Mom... that whole Army of Children being raised. Who's to say all 3 of us wouldn't be dead and in Hell, continually sacrificing ourselves for each other.”

Sam laughs in spurts as he lifts a lone eyebrow toward Dean. “Don't tell me not to do it when you do it yourself.”

“Do _what_?”

“Play the _What If_ game.”

“Yeah, well... I can't help it now that I have an expiration date.” Dean removes the washcloth which sends Sam to pick up the tweezers.

Sam leans over Dean's face, moving around the splinter. “Does it hurt?”

“Nah, it's numb now.” Dean's back to feeling nervous with Sam's nearness.

“I can make it _really_ numb.” Sam motions toward the floor where the first aid kit sits at his feet. “I saw a topical Novocaine in there.”

“Jesus— _still_?” Immediately, Dean is pelted with the memory of when he procured the bag years ago on a hunt with Dad.

Sam lifts one side of his mouth in a smirk, watching the memory unfold over Dean's face. “You and Dad?”

“... yeah, worst EMTS, ever... but that shit was mobile.” Dean sniffles out a snicker, shaking his head. “Dad kind of ordered me to raid the back of that ambulance with what I could gather.”

“John Winchester's little soldier.” When anyone but Sam says those words, they sound like an insult.

“... mmm... I'm realizing something...”

“What?”

“Runs along the same line as your _'What if I had gone to Stanford_ ' game.” Dean licks his lips, blinking slowly. “I have no idea who Dean Winchester is.”

Sam stops moving for a minute, then looks down at Dean. “Well... **_I_** know who he is...”

“Oh, you do?” Dean can't wait to hear this biography. “Please, enlighten me.” He folds his arms about his waist, waiting.

“Well, first thing is...” As Sam begins to divulge who he believes his brother to be, he works diligently at distracting Dean from what he's doing with the tweezers. “... he's the oldest son of John Winchester and Mary Campbell... second, he's big brother to Sam Winchester... uhm, he's a good marksman, his heart may not be golden, but his intent is good... he loves the ladies... he loves booze... he loves to buy the ladies booze...” They both share in a smidge of laughter, then connect gazes with small smiles. “... he cheats at pool, but he's genuinely good at it... he drives an Impala he inherited from his father, which he's fixed—replacing her parts—more times than he's seen the Grand Canyon or Yellowstone...” He looks up at a spot on the wall like he can read off a screen of a list of Dean's attributes—-not really shining human qualities, but they make Dean who he is. “... he likes classic rock and is a bad singer, but he knows every lyric to every song he loves... uhm, he's commitment-phobic, but he's a gentleman... hmm, what else?”

Dean brings his left arm over to cover his face. This is Sam— _Sammy_... he knows every dirty secret of Dean's and he's biased. No one else would know this stuff but him. “Thanks, but that's not what I mean.”

Sam removes his hand, with the tweezers poised to pull again. “Well, what _do_ you mean?”

“You were right before... I _was_ Dad's perfect little soldier...” Dean clears his throat, closing his eyes. “... hell, I fuckin' still am.”

“Got it!” Sam bursts out with a victory cheer and laugh, lightly petting Dean's cheek after kissing the boo-boo. Then he returns to being Night Nurse and a good listener. “So you're faced with your suck-ass One Year Deal an' you're in a quandary over where John Winchester ends and Dean begins... is that it?”

“Isn't that enough?” Dean rolls his eyes with a soft snicker. Dad's shoes are difficult to fill. “I open that god-damn journal and, when I read old notes, I can't even tell which words I wrote—I write like Dad.”

“That's not a bad thing, Dean.” Sam comforts with a gentle voice, like a mother would do to her child.

“Fuck yes it is.” Dean allows Sam to put on the butterfly tape after coating the cut with bacterial cream, then he rolls away to sit upright.

Sam sighs heavy as he watches Dean shuffle away, moving to his “corner”—his side of the bed—to pout and brood. He decides to give his brother space; he'll clean up and come back to talk once Dean is over his self pity party. Sam puts away the kit, carrying all the dirty towels and cloths to the bathroom. He dumps out the ice bucket and washes it, then brings the plastic container out to let dry upside down. He wanders over to the bed, turns off the light, then lifts up the edge of the covers to crawl in and under. Sam thinks about laying on his back, to sit up higher next to Dean, but he likes the more intimate position of laying on his right side and facing Dean. He bends his right elbow to rest his head on the hand, looking more relaxed and prepared for listening intently to what was bothering Dean. He knows it was a good idea as Dean shifts his body down to lay lower, head on pillow, top of head against the headboard.

“You never should've made the deal.”

“Well, too late. I had to do something to save you.”

“I'm doomed to become evil, Dean. Dad even told you so. Better to let me go now then to—”

“— _shutupshutupshutupshutup_...” Dean covers both hands over his face, then reaches out with his left hand to take Sam's hand on the bed between them. “I say—fuck what Dad said. How can we trust what any of these jackasses tell us, huh? If I don't bring you back myself, you don't think someone else will? Someone who has sinister plans for you?”

“Well, shit... if you put it _that_ way...” Sam takes his hand back to draw the sheets up his body. “Still... think about the fate of all those children like me suffered... you don't think they'd try harder this time? What good will I be on my own after your year is up?”

“I don't know. It's not like you have time to think with a Crossroads Demon.”

“Was she cute?” Sam knows she had to be. His usually were too.

Dean shapes an hour-glass figure in the air above him, then mimics a choke-hold with both hands. “Smokin' hot—in that psycho ex-girlfriend kind of way.”

“Ahhh...”

“What?”

“Well, they _do_ know you well. I suppose a Crossroads Demon who looks like a kin of Bobby's would've made you think twice.”

Dean snorts out a laugh. “Yeah, they know me _very_ well. Even the Reapers, man.”

“Tessa?”

“Dude... not only smokin' hot, but gorgeous face, an' lips... those eyes—but those could be her 'dead eyes'... mmm... who knows...” Dean shrugs his shoulders one at a time, rolling them to crack his back as he stretches out.

“God... you are so insane, Dean...”

“I never forget a pretty face.”

“What about Jo?” Sam's been quite curious on this point. He can see Jo's side of things; Dean's an attractive man and kind of fascinating to stare at.

“What about her?”

“How does she rate? I know she looses points because she's a blonde, but...”

“She's Ellen's kid. That means off-limits, bro.”

“One year, Dean... think about it—101 things Dean'll do before his year is up.”

“What would be number one?” Dean furrows his brow in perplexity. He doesn't even know himself well enough to know what he wants most, not even aware that he's right in the middle of it—-being with Sam, forever.

“The one thing you want to do most.”

Dean rolls his hand for Sam to keep going with that thought and help a brother out. “—an' that would be...?”

“Dean...”

“See, I told you... **_you_** might know me well, but **_I_** don't know me at all.”

“Okay... I'll help you...” Sam tenderly pats Dean's shoulder, then cups the shoulder joint to massage a little to calmness. “... what did you want to do most as a kid, when you wished Dad wasn't gone on a case?”

“Sports.” Dean says it so fast, Sam's actually impressed.

“oh-kayyy...”

“No, you know, make a day of it. Drive to Wrigley Field... buy a hot dog and sodas... soft pretzels with mustard or melted cheese... a bag of hot nuts...” Dean snickers while Sam rolls his eyes, waiting for him to go on. “... uhm.. Cubs or Red Sox—or the Phillies... I don't care who they play. Or maybe football... Cowboys, Patriots, Bears, Steelers... I want to be at a game, in the stands, so close to the playing field I could hit on a cheerleader...”

Sam suddenly flips onto his stomach; he reaches out to open the drawer of the night stand, dragging his body to look inside. He finds motel stationary and a cheap Bic pen. He clips the pen to the papers and hands them over to Dean. “Write 'em all down.” He goes back to laying on his right side. “Starting tomorrow, we'll do, or _try_ to do, one thing off your list, wherever we are. And don't feel you have to stop at 101... or that you have to reach 101, if you can't think of anything past a good number—like 50.”

As Sam talks, Dean uncaps the pen and quickly starts numbering, front and back, and begins with one hundred and one, all the way to one. When every number is there, he starts to write in small lettering—all caps, like he's yelling. It's simply the only way he knows how _not_ to look like Dad's handwriting. Sam is curious because he sees that Dean is concentrating and filling in a lot of spaces fairly fast, like he's rush taking a test. He's fascinated by Dean's face, particularly the expressions he emotes when a new thought comes to mind. Dean smiles, almost like a shy kid, with a twinkle to his eyes that he's actually going to get to do these things and not be rejected.

Dean flips onto his belly and seems to think harder when the ideas stop flowing freely. Sam reaches out to run the back of his index finger over the new wound, then down Dean's stubble. There's bruises and scratches and a busted corner of a lip; there's battle scars on Dean that Sam can't see and he wants to touch them, caress them and kiss them better. But they're all _inside_ Dean— _every single one_. Sam knows of one way he can reach them, but he's unaware if Dean feels that way about him. He's too scared to ask and too frightened he'll chase Dean away in disgust.

Sam's not sure what it is about darkness in a motel room that creates a sense of frenzied intimacy, like you don't know what could happen and there's a running race of fear and excitement in your gut. It tempts him to be adventurous because he knows just how far Dean will go for him; the idea that Sam can't repay that kind of sacrifice back makes him feel like he owes Dean a limitless debt. He lifts his hand again, rising on his elbow and instead of touching wounds and skin, fingers comb through matted dirty blond strands. After Dean showers at night, he doesn't use gels or waxes to spike his hair. The locks stay flat to his head, accidentally spiking because he's naturally fidgety. Sam follows a curve of an ear and then rubs over the side of the neck to soothe along shoulder to the joint, then over the shoulder blade. By this time, Dean's stopped writing and is laying his head down on folded arms. He's quiet and relaxed; Sam notices the even expansion and deflation of Dean's back to show he could be falling asleep finally—he's not. Dean turns his head to face Sam, but he hasn't opened his eyes. Sam's a pretty big guy, so when he swings his legs over he almost covers both of Dean's legs when he only wanted to tangle with one. The misstep actually causes Sam to shake Dean and jar him rudely.

“ooo... sorry...”

Dean only opens lids at half-mast, then lets out a silent laugh through nostrils. “... i's okay... I don't break.”

As Sam gently massages Dean's back, adding pressure down the spine, he tries the foot thing again and it works better when Dean's lower limbs aren't so close together. Fingers slide down to reach the elastic band of the briefs, but now Sam sneaks the hand up the thin t-shirt. He feels Dean shiver, only because it's skin on skin and Dean hadn't expected the hand to delve under his clothing. Sam watches Dean rise to his elbows and reach behind him to peel off the t-shirt from the back collar. It's riding up Dean's torso, covering his head, popping off and then only on his arms, trapping him—-he's actually contemplating leaving the shirt this way to imprison himself. But he slides out of one sleeve, then the other and tosses the shirt away. Dean returns to lay face down, but not on his arms. The left arm is close to his side; he brings the right arm up to reach over and touch Sam's chest. It's covered by a V-neck t-shirt and Dean's hand forms a fist in the soft material. Sam covers his hand over Dean's and keeps it to his chest.

“I'm here... I'm right here— _always_.”

There's a catch of a throat and a dry sob, while Dean's hand breaks free to snake up to curl about Sam's neck, fingers tangling in the lengthy brown hair. He pulls himself over as Sam falls back like he's about to lay down, but there's a need for a hard embrace. It's a pathetic one for Sam, because Dean's coming at him at an awkward angle, but Dean hangs on with all his might. Once Sam feels Dean cling, he begins to descend to the bed, head centered on his pillowcase. There's now a lump of human on his chest, but Sam doesn't mind. The weight and feel of Dean was what he wanted— _needed_. Now he can properly surround not only one but both arms around Dean. He lowers his grip to almost mid-back as Dean rises off his chest to stare down at him in the secluded darkness. Dean sifts his hand through the hair on top of Sam's head, displaying the forehead. He bends forward to kiss a portion of the hairline. He's inhaling the familiar shampoo—like rain water and fruit. It's not a manly shampoo, but Sam's always marched to his own drum.

Dean merges their foreheads and takes both hands to shape the sweet, dear face he can see when he closes his eyes. Deep-set hazel eyes, strong nose broken several times, soft cheeks to strong jaw that meet at a rounded chin. Lips... aren't full or plump, but they're average and pliable, often tempting Dean to want to taste them. They always smile and display perfect white teeth. Hands are on the neck now, long and supple, ending at the massive broad shoulders. There's nothing small or weak on Sam Winchester. Dean stops at the collar bone, because he can feel a heart racing and sense the deep intake of air to exhale at a fast pace.

Dean opens his eyes, pushing back a bit to get a clear view of Sam. Once he's there, he drops his gaze to stare at the open mouth like it wants to speak or it wants _something_ , desperately. As he goes to lean in, Sam leans up. Dean's left hand slips around to cradle the nape of Sam's neck and Sam's hands surround Dean's head, fingers lost inside dirty blond strands. Dean uses his right hand, flat to the mattress, beside Sam's head, for balance. He twists and turns to find various angels, his mouth devouring the entire mouth and then just the bottom lip with deep, tiny nips.

It's Sam who draws away, head pushing back and neck arcing while Dean trails lips down chin and along neck where the right hand of his is trying to pull aside the collar of the V-neck. Dean's exposed the upper right breast and bites with front teeth, licking with hot tongue. Sam's hands alternate from cupping shoulder joints to holding upper biceps.

“... _dean_...”

“... mmm...”

“What is _this_? What are we doing?”

“I need to start checking off my list at some point. It'll be tomorrow in two hours.”

“Wha—?” Sam is utterly lost with the meaning.

Dean pulls back to sit on the bed beside Sam and hands out the page he wants to be read. “Bottom of the page... one through seven...”

Sam smiles at the first wish—he was curious. “KISS SAM” The second wish. “ _REALLY_ KISS SAM” On and on to seven, it was nothing but wishes with Sam's name and something Dean had been wanting to do with Sam in private. Sam did notice his name littered throughout the rest of the list, but those were more for public displays of affection and enjoyment. “Dean...”

“mmm...?”

“I meant it. Every word. I'm gonna do everything in my power to change that deal and keep you here—with me.”

Dean places paper and pen off to the side, out of the way, and flips to lay on his back extremely close to Sam. He tucks his pillow under his head, lifting his left arm to tuck a hand behind his head. Sam perfectly curls to his side, resting his head on his chest and tangling his leg completely around both of Dean's lower limbs. Dean brings over his right arm, the fingers playing in Sam's locks. “Think it's fair for me to get away with repeats?”

“You could try. Why don't you just amend the wishes and times them by... infinity.”

“I'll do that... I will certainly do that.”

 **~*~the end**


End file.
